


Change My Stripes

by shiftylinguini



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Feelings, Country Gents, Future Fic, M/M, settling down, some miscommunication, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-03 22:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19473295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini
Summary: After nearly ten years of long-distance phone calls, midnight text messages and not a small amount of heartache, Nick's somehow ended up being the longest relationship Harry's ever been in, even if they've never called it so much. Harry's ready to stick around for a while now.It's not quite as easy as he'd hoped.





	Change My Stripes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alwaysenduphere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysenduphere/gifts).



> alwaysenduphere, your prompts were such fun to go through and I hope this manages to hit a few of your likes! I decided to merge a few of your requests, and went with a future fic with Nick and Harry settling down, and things not really running smoothly. I've not quite managed the angst or kink you wanted, but hopefully this will fit the bill!Thank you for being so generous with your ideas <3
> 
> Big big thanks for the mods for being total superstars and being so accommodating with my disaster self, and huge thankyous to my beta and brainstormers for being utter heros and listening to me throw 657 different ideas at them, and then proceeding to write NONE of them. I am a pain in the bum, mwah! xxx
> 
> Title from Restless by Allday

****

The first thing they do, once they're settled in, is throw a whopping big party.

"Crikey," Liam says as he steps through the front door, taking a look around their cottage. "This is well quaint, innit?"

Harry grins, even beams a bit. He thinks that's a compliment, and even if Liam hadn't meant it that way, that's how Harry's taking it, thank you. Their cottage is quaint and sweet, and all those other kinds of words. It inspires thoughts of tiffin and croquet and little old lady detectives; there's _ivy_ growing over the brick fence, and while Nick has done a lot to rearrange the interior decor, it still feels like the local vicar should be living in it. 

Of course, they're also renting the huge manor house attached, the one with a pool and a golf course, because Nick can take the popstar out of L.A. but he can't quite take away Harry's need for a bit of garish opulence. Settling down in the country is all well and good, but Harry's got a niggling fear that give it a week, and he'll be crawling out of his skin with nothing to do. 

They're only here for five months, Nick helping produce a local radio program as part of his "I'm pushing forty and I'm doing _projects_ now" schtick, and Harry… Well, Harry is along for the ride. 

He's being a boyfriend. He's sticking around for longer than a weekend. He's twenty seven, he's been mind-bendingly successful, and he's been hopping in and out of Nick's bed since he was eighteen. Nearly ten years of long-distance phone calls, midnight text messages and not a small amount of heartache, and Nick's somehow ended up being the longest relationship Harry's ever been in, even if they've never called it so much. Harry's ready to stick around for a while now. 

He's excited and equally crapping himself that he's going to be utterly shit at doing that, and he knows Nick is partly expecting him to up sticks on a whim. It's a little discouraging, but Harry knows it's born of habit and history and not a little bit of insecurity on Nick's part. It's not a great feeling, knowing most everyone in your life thinks you're an emotional flake, but Harry's nothing if not self aware these days. He _is_ a bit flaky, or he can be, but he does put down roots. He likes to know he's tethered. Not in the same way Nick does, but they meet in the middle, quite well, Harry thinks. 

And under everything, there's a comforting knowledge that he's properly in it now. In a relationship, whatever shape that might end up taking. Nick's stuck with him, in his bed and in this weird tiny village, and even if they drive each other up the wall and Harry gets bored in two days, the foundations of ten years of being in each other's lives and blowing up each other's phones feels solid enough that they won't crumble. 

Harry waves Liam in, kisses him on each cheek and then walks backwards towards the garden party set-up. 

"Lovely you could come," Harry rumbles, finding his straw with his mouth without breaking eye contact. "Nick'll be so happy to see you. _I'm_ happy to see you, Producer Liam." 

"Oh, god." Liam flushes, rolls his eyes. "Stop it, I'm going to blush everywhere and fall in love with you, and Nick will never work with me again." 

Harry grins around his straw, shrugs. "He's this way." Harry's drinking an Aperol spritz, that Alexa definitely splashed Vodka into. It shouldn't be nice, and maybe it isn't, but Harry's gone past tipsy two drinks ago. He smacks his lips against the boozy, bitter tang of liquor on his lips. 

There's only a few people at the party, those who live close enough to stop by, or those who live in this part of the UK. Harry doesn't mind small. He's planning to get amazingly sloshed; a small audience will suffice for that. Plus, it's mostly Nick's friends who've come. It reminds Harry of Primrose Hill, those dizzy days being young and stupid and drinking with people who seemed so out of his league. Nick, most of all. Harry's never figured out how Nick could seem so relatable and likeable while still making Harry feel starstruck and tiny every time. It's a kind of crush Harry's not sure he's ever experienced with anyone else, or got over. 

He's been told he makes others feel like that; he's sure he only knows how to because he's been on the other end of it. That, and he's a completely incontinent flirt. 

Everyone outside is pissed, albeit to varying degrees. Gemma's been in the white wines, a recently opened bottle sweating gently in the summer air. It's tepid in the back garden, the sun having gone down only minutes earlier. Pixie's draped over Nick, George sat on a burnt orange and pea green rug, little curlicues of frayed fringe tangling around the edges. 

"The lord of the manor returns!" Pixie declares, waving a hand and sloshing a drink in Harry's direction, and all over Nick's thigh. Harry grins and does a mock curtsy back, puffs out a laugh at Nick's indignant expression and wet leg. 

"He's been flirting with me terribly," Liam says, sloppily kissing the cheeks of the people he knows, shaking the hands of those he's barely met. 

"That's my boy." Nick raises his drink in a salute, cheeks flushed and eyes crinkling into a smile. He's forever trying to cream and laser his crow's feet away, but Harry loves them. Nick's caught a bit of sun, too. Harry wants to kiss the bridge of his nose, lick at his sun-warmed neck. He'd probably taste sweaty. Harry sucks on his straw again to have something to do with his mouth. 

"Sit down, Harry, you big lump." Gemma pulls at Harry's shirt tail and knocks him off balance. He oofs theatrically as he mock- falls onto her and the pile of pillows she's tumbled herself onto. Ebony snorts a laugh, and Harry smiles, cheeks already starting to pinch a bit from grinning. 

"Mind the wine, the wine!" Gemma cackles, mostly laughter but also with some genuine panic. 

"The wine!" Pixie joins in, and Harry echoes it as Gemma shoves him off. 

"So, have you met many of the locals, yet?" Liam pops the top off a drink Nick hands him, takes a swig. "Oh cider, very country, ta. Anyway, they must be dying to meet you. Big fancy popstar, radio personality." He scratches Pig behind the ears as she stares adoringly up at him. "And you of course, gorgeous," he coos. "Where's your little friend?" 

"Oh, Stinky." Nick sighs. "He rolled in something minging and now he's inside, post-bath, thinking about what he's done." 

"You mean sleeping on the bed, pleased as punch and drying himself off on your posh shirts," Harry corrects.

"Yeah." Nick grins lazily. "Your shirts next. Loves a bit of Gucci, does our Stinky Blob."

"Living up to his name." Liam nods. "So you've not made new friends, replaced us all? Must be off your game, Grimmy."

"Give us a chance, we've only been here a week!" Nick kicks out at him half-heartedly.

"Not sure Harry Styles really took off out this far, did he?" Alexa says into her glass. Pixie giggles; the bridge of her nose is looking sunblushed too. The two of them and Nick have been drinking since well before the others arrived, while Harry Skyped his mum and considered making cucumber sandwiches to go proper seventies posh. He didn't, in the end. But the thought was there. 

"Oi, Harry's well big here!" Nick nudges Alexa with his foot, mimes pushing her over into the plate of fruit and cheese they've long since abandoned and which Pig has been eyeing off. "He's big everywhere, and they do have radio here, thank you very much. We're only a bloody hour out of London, we're not in bloody. I dunno. The Shetland Isles or sommat." 

"You basically are, though. You've abandoned me and the big smoke." Liam sighs dramatically. "It's all country manor and local radio now for our Grimmy." 

"God, you sound like the fucking Sun," Nick complains, fishing the orange slice out of his gin with long fingers. He sucks on it, pulls a bit of pith from between his lips. "It's just a short break, couple of months, and honestly I needed it. Something a bit different." He flicks Harry a glance, and Harry wonders what his own face is doing. He feels weirdly besotted this evening, wants to bury his face in Nick's neck and in his lap. It could be the drinks, the nice chat with his mum, or the warm summer air, settling under his skin and making his thin shirt stick to his skin. It's almost certainly the new sheets on the king bed that Harry's itching to mess up. He thinks he sees the same simmering fondness and anticipation on Nick's face as he watches him back. 

"Awww!" Pixie coos, glancing between them. "Look at you two." 

"Oh gross, Pix." Nick wrinkles his nose and, throws his orange slice at her. "Don't be gross" 

"What, it's romantic, you're all in love a―" 

"No, you wrecked it." Harry sighs loudly. "The moment's gone to complete shit now." 

"Oh, get fucked both of you, then." Pixie stands, wipes the orange off her face, and shimmies over to the Bluetooth speakers. 

Harry grins as the music blares, Land of a Thousand Dances coming to life with a glorious blast of trumpets and a _1,2,3_. He lays his head down on Gemma's thigh, lets her fingers run soothingly through his hair. His eyelids heavy, he watches Nick talk, hands expressive and face cast into lovely shadows by the garden lights.

****

12:17am, Harry flops backwards onto the neatly made bed. He starfishes out, messes it up to his satisfaction like a fussy cat.

"Right." Nick kicks the door shut behind him, plants his hands on his hips. "That's everyone either got rid off or bedded down. The dogs are sorted. I'm so great at this." 

"At what?" Harry flips his arms above his head, turns his face into one armpit as Nick toes his shoes off and pads barefoot into the bathroom. 

"At hosting. Bed and breakfasting!" Nick pokes his head out the ensuite bathroom door, toothbrush in hand and foam around his mouth. "At being a country gent." He raises his eyebrows, infinitely pleased with himself. 

Harry laughs quietly, more a puff of air than an actual sound. He's really rather spectacularly sloshed. "You are. Born for it, you." Harry turns his head, stares at the ceiling as it gently spins above him, along with his pending hangover. He's talking shit. He's thinking nonsense. He loves this kind of drunk. "Could turn this place into a proper moneymaker, have people round all the time. See the sights." Harry shuts his eyes as he listens to Nick spit, and then rinse his brush. His smile widens, bit by bit, as he hears Nick come closer, and then flop down on top of Harry.

"See the sights?" Nick sits upright, places a hand on either side of Harry's chest. "What sights are those, then, love?" Nick snorts. "An unused golf course? The petunias out back and all the other garden bollocks that we're gonna forget about and end up killing off?" Nick leans closer, lowers his voice to a deep, teasing tenor. "World-famous pop-stars going slowly cuckoo from boredom?"

"Shh." Harry laughs, stretching his hands further above his head and arching his chest into Nick.

"Dunno, people might actually come all the way out here to see Harry Styles potter about on his lawn, going out of his mind being a country husband."

"‘M not gonna be bored. Sshh." Eyes still closed, Harry tries to find Nick's mouth and place a finger across it to keep him quiet. He manages to poke Nick in the cheek, then the nose, before Nick laughs and grabs his hand. He pulls Harry's fingertip to his own mouth, and kisses it wetly. They lapse into silence, Harry smiling at nothing as he consider dozing off while Nick hovers above him. 

"Harry," Nick says after a moment that's stretched on just a bit too long. 

"Mm?" Harry forces his eyes open, smile still stuck on his face. He must look goofy, wonky and drunk. He's comfortable, Nick on top of him and himself on top of big plush sheets. He's going to sleep forever. 

"You will tell me, won't you?" something in Nick's voice sounds hesitant, his lips moving against Harry's fingertip as he talks. 

Harry frowns. "Tell you what?" He's missed a step in the conversation somehow. 

"You know. When. If." Nick smiles and it's genuine, not forced, but there's something under it. An accompaniment to the hesitation in his voice, an emotion Harry's not quite sure how to put his finger on. He taps his finger against Nick's bottom lip instead, pulls it down. 

"When." Harry repeats. "If?" He lets his confusion fill the word. There's maybe a tinge of sadness under it; no matter how hard he pretends, he's not nearly as confused by this as he'd like to be. He knows what Nick is worried about. The inevitable parting of ways, so long a component of their relationship, isn't hanging above Harry anymore, but he's not sure if Nick has shaken off the feeling that they're on borrowed time. 

That bothers Harry. 

Nick doesn't clarify, seems to be chewing the words over, rolling them around in his mouth and against Harry's finger. Harry likes the way they understand each other like this, sometimes, without needing to say anything clearly. He doesn't like the content though, the topic. He knows these unsaid things can sometimes warp when left in darkness too long, and that Nick feels Harry's silences as inscrutable moments indicative of Harry's malcontent, rather than what they really are ― just pauses. They're the time taken before speaking, the time needed before the right words are chosen. Harry's always been slow to settle on what words feel right. 

He doesn't settle on any now. He reaches up, grabs the collar of Nick's top ― lime green and white stripes, little cream buttons, half undone ― and pulls him down for a kiss. It catches Nick by surprise. Harry's other finger is still between them as their mouths meet, as Nick starts to laugh. 

"Easy there, love." He kisses Harry properly. "Distract me from the question _gently_ ," he jokes, slightly wry. 

"‘M not." Harry lets go of Nick's collar, slips his hands up the back of Nick's shirt. He frowns. "And stop it, please."

Nick's face softens. "Stop what, Harry?"

Harry swallows, rubs one eye. He tries not to sound too petulant when he says, "Being maudlin. Morose. Assuming all the worst of ―" he stops short of saying ‘ _of me_ '. "Of my attention span." He runs his hands up and down Nick's back. 

"I'm sorry, love." Nick kisses him. "I'm a bit tiddly. Don't mean to be morose."

"You know I won't ―" Harry swallows, think of all the things he wants to say. _Leave in the middle of the night, ever get bored of you, ever mean to hurt you if I need a bit of space, ever not come back again when I'm done_. He's so tired, though, and sozzled from all the day drinking, from all the trapped affection in his chest. He surprises even himself when what he does say is,

"Let the petunias out the back die."

Nick laughs, loud and right in Harry's face. "Oh, darling. You're so much drunker than I realised, aren't you?" His voice is so fond, his cheeks scratchy with stubble as he presses his face against Harry's. Harry nuzzles into it, slightly turned on from all the contact, mostly ready to fall asleep in his trousers and shoes. 

"Alright then." Nick heaves Harry up against his chest, then rolls them both until Nick is on his back, Harry's face pressed up against Nick's chest. "Let's have a cuddle, and then let's get you into your pjs and under the covers."

"You're so good at this," Harry agrees, mouth open and slurry against the material of Nick's shirt. 

"At being your dribble pillow? Ta, babe."

"Hosting. Bedding and breakfasting." Harry's eyes slip shut. He lifts one leg and flops it over Nick's as they dangle off the end of the bed. 

"Mmm." Nick pulls Harry closer. 

"And being my dribble pillow," Harry adds. He falls asleep to the rumble of Nick's laughter through his chest.

****

Harry wakes with a hangover, the kind that sits petulantly behind his eyes and at the top of his skull. He's not queasy, but his stomach feels strange. It takes him several long, sleep-muddled moments to realise it's the conversation from last night that's unsettling him.

He rubs his eyes, stretches his legs against the blankets. He's back to back with Nick, shoulders pressed against shoulders. It's warm and safe the way only bed and company can feel, and Harry lets himself luxuriate in it. There's nothing he needs to be up for. There are no planes that need to be caught. He's not got a meeting in London for another three weeks; the only songs he need sing are the ones he feels like. 

It's wonderful, and again, it's terrifying. So much freedom and so much time. Harry's already built himself detailed itineraries to keep himself comfortably caged. He'll descend into chaos otherwise. Or at least, he's worried he will. 

Right now, what he wants most of all is more skin against his. He slips his foot backwards between Nick's calves, rubs it up against his legs. Nick is asleep, breathing heavily and draped in only a light sheet. It's warm still. They've both always run hot, sweating under covers. As is, Harry's mostly kicked his off in the night. He rolls over, presses his chest to Nick's back. He rubs his hand over the hair low on Nick's stomach. 

Nick rumbles softly, pressing back into Harry as Harry kisses the back of his neck where his hair forms a V. "Morningggg," Harry murmurs, his voice croaky with sleep. 

"Mm. 'lo," manages Nick. He arches his back, catlike and with deep satisfaction. "God, how is it morning already?" 

"Welllllll," Harry kisses Nick's neck again, then up to his ear, leaving a trail of saliva. "I never did my physics a-level, but when the sun goes down at night, it then comes _back up_ again―"

"Oh, ha ha." Done with his stretch, Nick curls slightly inwards. The motion sets Harry's hand down lower against his belly, at the waistline of his pants. "I'm not a morning person," Nick mumbles.

"Nick." Harry laughs, incredulous. "That's bollocks." 

"No, it's true. I'm scarred from all them years of mornings on the radio. Now I can't be seen up before eleven, otherwise I get hives." He wriggles back against Harry's groin, face still thoroughly squashed into the pillow and hair darkly spider-webbing out across it. 

"Hives." Harry pretends to contemplate, slipping his fingertips just below the hem of Nick's briefs. 

"Yep, need creams and all. Big blotchy hives." Nick reaches back with one hand, sliding it down Harry's thigh. He gently cups the back of it. 

"Sexy. Hives really do it for me." 

"Feels like it." Nick pulls Harry's thigh against his own, rocks his arse back against Harry's erection. 

"Because I _am_ a morning person," Harry mumbles as he bites at Nick's shoulder, just a soft pull of skin between teeth. 

Nick laughs. "Always have been early, you, yes." 

"An early riser, you could say." Harry bumps his cock against Nick's arse, grins. 

Nick groan-laughs into his pillow. "Awful. Awful and rotten, and here I was thinking you were trying to get a leg over." 

"Definitely am." Harry hums, smiling closed-mouthed. "Quickie before breakfast?" 

"Does it count as a quickie still if you're in your own bed and don't have anywhere to be?" Nick makes a thoughtful sound, rolling his hips back against Harry's cock again. Harry gives up on toying with the hem of Nick's pants and slides his hand underneath it, fingers bumping the head of Nick's erection. 

"Yep." Harry mouths at Nick's neck, messy and without much of a purpose beyond getting his mouth on as much skin as he possibly can. "No rules to quickies." 

"Lazy morning sex is a law unto itself?" 

"Absolutely." 

Nick's breath catches as Harry sucks a hickey onto the back of his neck, pulls away with a loud smacking sound. It feels lewd in the domesticity of the room, or at least, in the fantasy of it Harry's created in his head. Harry's not going to fight that; a kink's a kink and Harry's always been game to ride his to completion. He presses up as close to Nick as he can, rolls his hips in a filthy grind.

"Do you want me to make you come?" Harry says, low and dirty, as he lets go of Nick's cock and rakes his blunt nails up Nick's thigh instead. 

" _God_ , yes," Nick groans. 

They both work to wriggle Nick's briefs down. Harry leans back in, biting on his bottom lip as his bare cock touches Nick's arse; Harry's never been one to sleep clothed. 

Nick hums, his hand cupping Harry's thigh again, long fingers curling around to bump against his balls. Harry groans, a half-swallowed sound as his breath hitches. His hips tick forward, grinding out a steady rhythm against Nick as he fits his palm around Nick's cock. 

The sheets rustle, tangled around their calves and feet as their breathing grows louder and fills the room. Harry wants to shut his eyes, keep them open, wants to roll over onto his back and wrap his legs around Nick, have Nick fuck him into the mattress. He wants to grind Nick into the mattress himself. His fingers are slick with Nick's precome, his knuckles shiny and wet, and he wants everything; to make Nick come all over himself, the sheets, on Harry's chest and thighs. 

He's spoilt for choice, overwhelmed and giddy with it all, and he chokes a groan as Nick lets go of his thigh and slips his hand back between them to grip Harry's prick. 

"C'mere, love, just ― _yeah_." Nick sighs out the word as he pulls Harry's cock between his thighs. "Good?" Nick asks over his shoulder, hand returning to Harry's thigh, sliding higher. Harry nods frantically, sweat damp hair catching on the pillow beneath him. 

"Shit." Harry rubs his lips over Nick's shoulder blade, mouth open and breath loud. 

"Yeah," Nick says again, eyes shut and head tilted back. "Just like that, love. That's perfect." 

Harry groans again, fucking in between Nick's thighs. It would be better with lube, even the thought of sliding wet and easy through the tight gap makes Harry's cock twitch, his fingers clench. But it's so good as it is, and lube would mean stopping. Harry doesn't want to stop ― the glide of his cock against Nick's hot skin feels _perfect_ , just like Nick said, the word rippling shiver-like down Harry's spine. Harry likes doing well. He loves being told he's doing well even more. His cheeks feel red and his pulse fast with it. 

He feels Nick's free hand slip around his own where it loosely holds Nick's cock right as he realises that he's doing a terrible job of multi-tasking. He tightens his grip, lets Nick show him how he wants it. Nick groans, moving his other hand up to Harry's arse cheek. He grips the meat of it, pulling Harry's cheeks apart. Harry gasps as Nick's fingertips brush against his hole, his rhythm faltering as his thighs clench, his stomach swoops. His orgasm crests, expected and still taking him by surprise, as his hips jerk and his toes curl. He groans loudly against Nick's neck, burying his face there. 

"Fuck, yes," Nick murmurs, breathing hard. "There you go, so good." He chokes a laugh as Harry moves his hand ― uncoordinated from the rush of coming ― in his best attempt at getting Nick off. "Here, let me." Nick switches hands, letting go of Harry's arse ― Harry sighs, sated but still greedy for contact there ― and cups it around Harry's hand again. Fingers entwined, Nick sets the pace, mumbling breathy nonsense into his pillow as Harry mouths over his shoulder and his neck. Nick gasps when he comes, hot and messy over their hands. Harry kisses every bit of him he can reach, breathless still and tingly with aftershocks, sneaking glances at Nick's smile whenever he can.

"Fuck," Nick says, voice heavy and low with contentment. "I love that." 

Harry hums in agreement. Sex is brilliant. They're slick in the mess of it, the cooling aftermath. Harry's blissfully happy, his mind wiped clean. The worry will trickle back in, seeping around the edges of his mind like water on cigarette paper, but for now, it's far away and shapeless. Harry's all smiles and flushed skin and cooling come on the webs of his fingers. He breathes out heavily, muscles lax. 

"I love," Nick starts quietly, then swallows, audible in the quiet room. Harry feels himself tensing, his attention caught and reeled in against the word. "I love doing this with you." It's mumbled, loaded like a confession. 

Harry's only free hand is messy, the other trapped beneath their bodies, but he pulls Nick back against him into a hug as best he can. He kisses his reply over Nick's neck and up onto his cheek, tangling them up. He keeps Nick like that, messy and flushed and warm, until they fall back asleep, Nick tight in the comfortable trap of Harry's arms and Harry grounded by it all, perfectly.

****

It's noon when they stumble out of bed.

They shower, washing the morning away and rinsing the shampoo out of each other's hair. Harry's hair is short now, Nick's as long as it's ever been. Harry finishes first, kisses Nick before stepping out and towelling off. 

He's lazy and sated as he pads into the kitchen, barefoot and in joggers that cuff his ankles. He makes himself toast, stretching as he waits for it to pop. His hangover wants to make itself known, but it's not overly nasty. Toast and coffee, then paracetamol, and Harry thinks it will be gone entirely. 

He looks through his photos from the night before, switching to his emails when he starts to feel uneasy about what Nick said before they fell asleep. He's not sure how to respond to ‘ _if you leave me_ '. He doesn't know what to think about Nick saying "when", as if it's a certainty. 

He tries not to stew on it, but it niggles away at him, rattles around in his head. It's like the words to a song he can't get right, or an unsettled feeling of having forgotten something. The gas left on, the keys left in the car, a window left open when it's going to rain. It sits uncomfortably in his chest, trickling down into his belly. _When_. 

He picks up his toast, opens his To-Do list app on his phone. It will pass, he thinks, as he meticulously sets out the things he plans to do for the day, correlates it with his plans for the week, then the month. 

It will pass. All feelings of unease do. If he says it enough times, it will be so. 

Such are the lies we tell ourselves.

****

It's three weeks later, in the beginning of Autumn, when Harry realises he needs to say something.

There's no real catalyst, which surprises Harry. He's been expecting a fight, perhaps, something to bubble up. Really, he was hoping Nick would bring it up, letting Harry off the hook. He hates bringing up things that bother him, at having to be the catalyst himself. He wants all eyes on him, attention and adoration, but he's never keen to talk about his feelings. It feels too much like exposing his soft insides to attack. 

Its when he gets back from a weekend in London that he realises he can't avoid it any longer.  
He's been there for meetings ― work and social ― and his mind is buzzing from talking about contracts and deadlines and pending projects. He's on day two of a hangover, his mind fuzzy from dancing with Harry Lambert in glorious and uncomfortable shoes. The drive back is dull, the slow rock of the car making Harry pissy even though he's on the tail end of a great time. He knows he's starting to sulk. 

There's stray glitter still in his hair, and he picks at his chipped nail polish, middle fingernail grinding against thumb as he sits in the back of the car and texts Nick with his other hand. Their conversation meanders, and Harry flicks between apps, the jump of it making him mildly anxious, and in between the updates on Nick's show and the jokes at Harry's expense about the state of him (‘ _don't need to vom on the side of the road again do you?_ ') Nick sends: 

_Lol don't have too much fun, i'll worry you won't come back next time!!_

By the time Harry's read over it three times, he's in a properly shit mood. 

When he arrives at their house, the mood has converted into a flat ache. He hasn't replied. He knows it's a joke, but it's also not. His instinct is to push it down and let it stew, let Nick know that he's pissed without explaining why. Passive aggression, thy name is Harry Styles. He considers it, and it's satisfying in the way all imagined fights are, but he tosses the idea aside. Nick will just be hurt and confused, and Harry will only be stalling the inevitable. He's already been doing that for nearly a month now. 

He trudges inside, his satchel over one shoulder and his stomach in his shoes. The dogs are thrilled to see him in ways Harry's never quite managed to reciprocate (he loves them, but he's a cat person, really).

Nick, as it turns out, is not home. 

Harry dumps his satchel in their room, pulls his trainers off. He's annoyed at the anticlimax of it all. His phone pings in his pocket as he's letting the dogs out for a wee. Gemma wants to meet him next weekend. Jeff wants to call later. Nick wants to know what Harry wants for his tea, as he's stopped by the shops. Nick's thinking about pizza. 

Bizarrely, the last one makes Harry want to cry. He's planning an argument; Nick's planning dinner. Maybe Harry has got this all wrong, and Nick's not been sending him hints that he's insecure, nor been shooting invisible bullets at him. Harry's no stranger to projection, and he knows he's been worried he'll turn out to be a shitty boyfriend, or partner, or whatever they are.

He's still stuck in his head about it all when Nick crashes home, keys jangling and heavy bags of shopping digging into the crook of his arm. 

"Hiya, love, you in?" he yells as he struggles into the kitchen. "Ah ha!" Nick beams at Harry when he spots him, sitting at the kitchen counter with a sad cup of coffee that's long gone cold. He looks beyond pleased to see Harry, as he dumps his shopping and peppers kisses all over Harry's cheeks. 

"Oh my god, I missed you, I was like a depressed Victorian, did loads of staring forlornly out of windows and thinking of moors," Nick croons, over exaggerated and ridiculous and Harry wants to lean into the joke, to pretend it's too much like Nick expects, but he leans in instead. He's greedy for the contact and reassurance, and still feeling inordinately weepy. He manages a bleak smile as Nick hugs him like he's trying to squeeze his head off. 

"Right." Nick smacks one last loud kiss against Harry's forehead before letting him go. "You didn't reply to my text, so I just went wild with the shopping, got whatever I felt like." Nick lets Harry go and stats unpacking.

"Oh yeah? What're we having then, duck?" Harry rests his elbows on the counter and then his chin in his hands. "Caviar and pilchards?"

"Bleh." Nick makes a face. "What've they been feeding you this weekend, that sounds vile."

Harry's stomach tightens at the mention of the weekend. Nick carries on, oblivious. 

"So I figured we'd stay in, ‘cos I'm feeling needy after you being away and that." Nick grins and blows a kiss, bangs the fridge door shut with his shoulder. "Maybe we can get into the wine, if you're not feeling too tired and emotional as is, from all your gallivanting." 

"Like you didn't have people over while I was gone," Harry counters, feeling defensive. He tries to keep his tone neutral.

"Fifi doesn't count, she's like a second limb at this point," Nicks responds blithely without looking up from the bag of green beans he's rummaging in. "Got these instead of crisps," he explains sheepishly when he catches Harry watching him. "Well. Got these and crisps, but I'll have these first." His smile falters, only a little, as he takes in Harry's somewhat wan expression, the poe face he's been nursing since the car ride. "You okay, love? Feeling peaky? You're all quiet."

Harry stares back. He's planning to say that maybe they should talk over dinner, that something's worrying at him. In a perfect world, in Harry's head, he'll have all the right words at the right time when it comes to talks like this. 

In reality, Harry says nothing, until he just says it all at once. 

"Are you worried I'm going to leave you?" he blurts. It's abrupt, and Nick's face shows it. 

"What?" Nick asks, lank green bean in one hand. 

"Are you. Um." Harry clears his throat, apparently riding this out. If it's going to be a proper confrontation he'll hate every moment, but he has to say it. "Are you worried I'm going to leave you, or just, are you giving me outs? Like, in case I might be wanting to and just putting off doing it." He sighs. Nick's face is giving nothing but confusion away. "You keep saying these things, and then your text before." Harry runs his fingers through his hair, lets his hand rest against the back of his head when he's done. He rubs soothingly at the base of his own skull. His throat feels tight, his eyes a little hot. "Like. I don't know if." Harry shrugs, looking at something just south of Nick's eyes. He can't quite meet them right now. "I don't know how to read it. I'm not stupid ― "

"Oh, love, I don't ― " Nick croaks, but Harry shakes his head. 

"Can I say this. Please?" Harry laughs. "It's been bothering me a bit," he understates. 

"I can tell," says Nick softly, still looking mostly blindsided. "Go on then." Nick nods, setting his bag of green beans down and folding his arms low across his chest. Usually a defensive gesture, but it doesn't appear so now. 

"Like, I know you've been, that I've." Harry pulls his lip between his teeth. His fingers press soothingly against the back of his head once more as he searches for the words. "There's been a lot of space, between us. For most of the time we've been together," he says slowly. "But I haven't felt distant from you. I don't feel distant from you. But you keep saying these things. Like you're," Harry hunches his shoulders, brings his hands against his chest and curls them into fists as he searches for the word. As if the action will help. "Like you're bracing for me to leave. And. I really hate it?" Harry lets his hands fall to his side. "I can be selfish. I know that. But I'm not, like, deceitful." His shoulders sag in something like relief. Perhaps it's the anticipation of relief. "I'm not secretly planning to ditch you."

The word ‘deceitful' leaves an aftertaste in his mouth, and Nick still looks like he doesn't know what to say. Harry sticks his hand in the bag of beans for something to do. That, and he loves them. 

"I'm finished," Harry says after a long minute in which the clock ticks and Pig snuffles around them, eagerly hoping for something to eat. "Like, finished talking. Thank you for letting me say all that." 

"‘Course, ‘course," Nick replies, quickly. "Don't need to thank me, god, Harry." He laughs, but it still sounds confused, a little lost. "Um. I'm a bit. I think I need a mo'?" He scratches at the stubble on his cheek. "To think of what to say. How to reply." 

Harry nods, aiming for polite, even though he feels his stomach drop. "Okay. Sure," he mumbles, then clears his throat. "Might have a bath, then." 

Harry gets up slowly, pushes the peas into the middle of the counter. He thinks about kissing Nick on the cheek as he walks past. He can't read Nick's expression though, so he steps wide instead.

****

Nick knocks on the bathroom door just as Harry is contemplating re-filling the tub. His water's gone luke warm, his toes lightly pruned. There's a feeling of dread in his gut, which he can't decipher properly. He's either cleared the air, or lit the fuse on a bomb which he didn't want to go off.

"Come in," he calls out. He plays with one of his rings, sliding it wetly over his finger as Nick lets himself inside. 

"Oh, you've got candles going," Nick comments. He looks fine, Harry finds, as he studies his face. Not angry, no signs of crying, just tired, perhaps. He steps inside, shuts the door behind himself to stop the dogs from trying to creep in too; they've both learned that's necessary unless they want a bath full of exuberant, wet dogs. 

"So," Nick says, and then stops. He leans back against the closed door. 

"So." Harry licks his lips. "Am I about to get a bollocking?" he says, feeling vulnerable due to his nakedness and thus wanting to expedite any angry words Nick's planning to vent his way. He sits upright, brings his knees up and rests his forearms on them. "Which would be fine, by the way. I did kind of spring that on you there."

"Oh god, no, no bollocking due from me, love." Nick kneels beside the tub with a crack of knees. He rests his elbows against the sides. "So, I reckon I've been a bit of a prick," he states.

Harry frowns. "What, no you haven't been a ― " 

"Noo," Nick draws the word out, sits back in his heels. "I have. I don't think I meant to be, but." He smiles wryly. "I think I've been doing your head in a bit?" He brushes Harry's damp hair away from his forehead. 

"A bit. Yeah. Or I might've just done my head in all on my own?" Harry admits, leaning into Nick's hand. The contact brings him overwhelming relief, each touch a reminder that nothing dire has happened. "I've been stewing," he mumbles, smiling self-deprecatingly. 

"Nah. You didn't get here all on your own." Nick's mouth twists, then he lets his breath out before going on. "I do this thing, right," Nick says, swishing one hand in the bathwater. "Nothing that unique, or so I'm told by reputable therapists," he huffs a dry laugh, "Although not said like that, of course." He takes a moment to choose his next words. "I've said before that no one's ever offered me commitment, but the thing is, I tend to head them off at the pass before they can. Like, try and pre-empt what might happen, prepare for the worst, all that crap." Nick sighs. "If I'm completely honest, it's almost a bit of a comfort zone, which is." Nick makes a face, meets Harry's eyes. "Something I'm working on. So. Yeah. I have been doing what you said I was."

"I'm not planning to leave, Nick," Harry starts, absorbing what Nick's saying.

"You might, though." 

"Nick, I won't ―"

"No, the thing is, you genuinely might, and, like, the roof also might cave in on us right now, and tomorrow I might, I don't know, slip on a banana peel and die a really embarrassing death." Nick runs his wet hand through his hair, then rests his elbow against the rim of the bathtub. "What I mean is, you might get fed up and feel cooped up and leave, but I don't think you will, and I'm not expecting you to. It's just I have all these worries, and they're not really real, so it's shitty of me to say stuff like I did."

"You can, though, if you need," Harry feels a sudden need to emphasise this. "You can tell when you're feeling all that, just maybe not ―"

"Maybe not keep implying that you've got one foot out the door?" Nick finishes for him. Harry nods. "Yeah, I figured that was making you feel rotten. That's the bit that's shitty. That's the bit I‘m going to try and do less of." Nick runs his hand over Harry's knee cap.

Harry hums. "I was maybe worried, too. I don't know. I haven't been this still in years." Harry shrugs. "So it's not like you're the only neurotic person in this relationship, Nick,"

"I'm not? Bugger." Nick smiles. "Loads of issues between us, then, yeah? Shocking." 

"Guess so." Harry sits up further, the water sloshing around him. "Blind leading the blind." He laughs tentatively. "We'll get there, though."

"You know, the weirdest thing is, I genuinely believe that," Nick says earnestly. 

"Me too." Harry kisses Nick's cheek. "Few more awkward bath convos, and we'll be perfect. Invincible."

"Nah," Nick turns his head to catch Harry's mouth, pushing damp hair away from Harry's temples. "We can have loads of them. I'm in it for the long haul, awkward conversations about gross insecurities ‘til we're both grey and bald." 

"Can you be grey and bald?"

"Mm. Probably not. We'll do one of each, then. Flip a coin for who gets what." 

Harry grins, slips a hand around the back of Nick's neck. Nick bumps his forehead against Harry's. 

"I fancy you the most out of anyone, Styles, do you know that?" Nick says seriously, then kisses Harry on the cheek. 

"I know," Harry says, enjoying his Han Solo moment. Never one to miss an opportunity, he quietly adds, "I love you, too. Do you know that?" 

Nick's expression softens out, his hand warm on the back of Harry's neck. Nick kisses him again, dragging his lips against Harry's as he nods.

****

**Author's Note:**

> say hello to me on [tumblr](https://shiftylinguini.tumblr.com/) if you like xxx


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